


Where Heaven is but Once Begun

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-08
Updated: 2005-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Watcherlove Ficathon. Giles attends a funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Heaven is but Once Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

NOTES: 4500 words. Title and quote from the hymn "How shall I sing that Majesty” by John Mason. My heartfelt thanks and hugs to Lonely Brit who not only beta-ed but listened to me whinge on about this far too long. She’s a star. 

 

_They sing because thou art their Sun;_  
Lord, send a beam on me;  
For where heaven is but once begun  
There alleluias be.  
(John Mason (1683)) 

****

Where Heaven is But Once Begun.

He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, and grimaced at the thin sheen of sweat pooling at the edge of his constricting collar. It just wasn’t right. This was England, for God’s sake. Green and pleasant land. Why was it not drizzling? Had the weather no respect for the departed?

He shifted in the pew, and tried to focus on the tastefully discreet order of service. They had made it to the eulogy, which was being delivered by Arthur Maddox, one of the few members of the council to survive the explosion. He was a contemporary of the man; they had studied together at the Academy, and had conducted their first mission to Vienna as team leader and second in command. Or so it would seem according to the rather exhaustive account that Maddox was now presenting. The old man was lost in remembrance, his craggy face strangely rejuvenated as he recalled their work together. Giles closed his eyes and had a brief poignant glimpse of eager young watchers, with far too much book knowledge and not nearly enough field work. 

He glanced around the room at the rows of younger council employees, many of whom he had interviewed himself. They looked politely bored; duty and honour had made their attendance at the funeral unavoidable, but it was clear they had little interest in the tale of old-fashioned daring do that Maddox now unfolded. One or two were consulting their watches less than discreetly, and he fought the urge to tut volubly. The arrogance of the young – Lord, when had he become his father?

And then Maddox was finished and the organ swelled into a grand minor theme, signalling the first bars of Tallis’ Third Mode melody. The congregation stood and Giles joined them, fumbling with his order of service. The final hymn continued in the same vein as those that had preceded it, themes of duty and sacrifice featuring heavily alongside those of unworthiness and need of chastening. Not for the first time, he imagined what it might have been like to grow up under the tutelage of such a stern, unyielding man.

The service closed with the benediction, and then the organ began the recessional, the incongruously gentle Bach chorale “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring”. The congregation filed out behind the coffin and made its way to the private graveyard at the back of the church. Giles followed towards the back, his now superfluous raincoat slung over his arm. He fell into step behind two of the newer council members, who were deep in conversation. 

“I noticed that there was no mention of a certain ex-watcher in that depiction of his distinguished career.” The young man’s tone was snidely simpering.

The other leaned closer, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “What do you expect, after what happened in Sunnydale? I’m surprised the old man didn’t disown him. “

Giles cleared his throat, very softly. “I do think it rather inappropriate to speak ill of the dead. Particularly considering the occasion.” He kept his voice very low, but anger sharpened his consonants, till he was practically spitting the plosives. 

The two men turned and recognized him immediately. He was pleased to see that his reprimand carried some weight, as they both blushed furiously. 

“Mr Giles, we…uh… didn’t see you there.” 

“Obviously,” he responded coolly, fixing them with his stoniest glare. 

“I mean, that is to say, we wouldn’t have…” 

It was pathetic, really. “See that you don’t, then. If the family had overheard you…” They reddened further, thus prompted to chagrin. He gave them a final arctic glance, then swept past them towards the graveside.

The family grave was tastefully unpretentious; the black marble worn with age, but with an air of gravitas and grandeur that came from a family line tracing back to the sixteenth century. The list of the illustrious dead had been newly amended to include one Roger James, beloved husband of Margaret, dutiful son of James and Helen. _The unwritten disappointed father of Wesley._

Giles looked up and saw the widow standing very straight by the graveside, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat. She made no concession to the unaccustomed heat of the autumn afternoon; had not shed her coat, her gloves or tears. She listened carefully as the vicar intoned the expected biblical verses, nodding slightly at the appropriate moments. There was no dropping of flowers onto the coffin; no dabbing of the eyes with a lace handkerchief. Margaret Wyndam-Pryce stood in dignified silence as her husband was laid to rest.

And then it was over, and the hushed silence was replaced by a deferentially low hum of conversation. The few older council members moved to pay their respects to their former colleague’s widow, while the other younger representatives gathered in small groups to gossip about each other and surreptitiously loosen their ties.

Giles stood apart, unsure of where he fitted in this situation. He was still considered something of a young upstart by the council old guard; while the new watchers regarded him as an old fogey, a relic from the bad old days; but with enough awe to ensure that they never expressed that opinion within his earshot. 

He looked again at the widow, who was receiving condolences with polite reserve, then caught her eye. She raised her head, just a little, and shook hands with one of the more voluble mourners, dismissing him graciously. Giles approached and held out his hand in the formal gesture of condolence.

“Mrs Wyndam-Pryce, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr Giles. I do appreciate your presence here. It’s very kind of you.” She held his hand a fraction longer than was necessary.

“Not at all,” Giles murmured quietly. “Roger will be sadly missed by the Council.” That much was true, he supposed.

Margaret Wyndam-Pryce looked directly at him, and Giles recognised the hint of resolve in those blue eyes. “Perhaps you would walk with me a while, Mr Giles.”

Giles held out his arm, and she slipped her hand through. “That was a lovely service,” he said, out of politeness.

“Oh, really I had very little to organise. Roger had all the arrangements made before he passed.” They were walking away from the crowd, through a little copse of beech trees. “He was very particular, you know, about that sort of thing. He had to have everything just so. He chose the music and readings himself.” She paused, and sighed softly. “In a way it was oddly comforting. Almost like having him there.” 

Giles heard the wistfulness in her voice and the gloved hand that rested on his arm trembled a little. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And this time he meant it.

“I was hoping you would be here. You were very kind to Wesley when he first went to America. He always spoke very highly of you, you know.” Giles reddened, remembering the uncharitable thoughts he’d entertained on his initial acquaintance with Wesley.

“There are some things; his colleagues in Los Angeles sent them home after…” her voice tailed off, and she turned towards the graveyard. “Roger also left some directions in his will. Regarding his son.” She turned back to him, and gave him a searching look. “I wonder if you would mind carrying out his requests. It would mean a lot to me, Mr Giles.” Giles was again struck by the keenness of her gaze. She met his eyes steadily. 

“Of course. It would be an honour, Mrs Wyndam-Pryce.”

*~*~*~*

It was after dusk when he crossed counties into Devon. He had purposely avoided the M5, stayed on the smaller A and B roads that wound through Dorset until he bypassed Honiton and drove over the Exe. The coven knew that he would not arrive until after ten, and the usual protective wards were augmented to guard against scrying or locator spells. He knew he was being paranoid; had seen no evidence of surveillance, no non-descript but constant car on his tail; but that meant nothing. They did this for a living; they were bloody good at it. He had to be paranoid.

He pulled in before he crossed the bridge and checked his rear view mirror. The road behind him was clear. He whispered the revelation charm under his breath, then drove over the bridge and took the left fork in the road that had not existed before. On either side of the lane there were tall trees that curved over at the top to create a tunnel that ran for about a mile. He passed through the tunnel, then the road opened out onto the wider moor lands. Another mile and he arrived at the cottage. 

The curtains were drawn, but he could see a lamp lit in a downstairs window. He lifted the box out of the boot, locked the car, then walked to the front door. Giles pressed the bell and waited. 

There were footsteps inside, the creak of old floorboards, then a pause, and he knew he was being watched. Then the dead bolt was drawn back, and the door was opened. 

He looked older. Giles always tried to prepare himself for that, but each time it struck him how he had aged. Giles knew he himself had, the creaks in his joints seemed louder by the day, and he often saw his father’s face in his shaving mirror, but he had grown used to that. It was just harder, seeing a year’s worth of lines at a single glance.

“Giles.” He smiled, and Giles recognised his mother’s eyes.

“Wes.” He stepped through the door, then laid his hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” 

The younger man stilled beneath his hand, and Giles thought he heard a quiet sigh. “You must be exhausted. Come on in.”

Wesley led the way down the narrow hall into the downstairs study. There was choral music playing very quietly in the background, and the lamp in the corner cast a soft glow on the buttermilk painted walls. The cast iron woodstove in the inglenook fireplace was not burning, but it seemed cosy and warm. Books and papers lay on the small writing desk in the corner of the room; Wesley had clearly been working prior to his arrival. 

Wesley gestured to the sofa. “What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” He shook his head uncertainly. “God knows, you could probably do with it.”

Giles set the box down on the thick oatmeal carpet and touched Wesley’s arm gently. “Wesley. I’m fine. Honestly.” He wanted to pull him close, but Wesley seemed tense and distracted. “I just want to sit down and talk.” 

“Right, yes. Talk. That would be sensible,” he murmured, and sat down on the couch obediently, his hands smoothing down the tops of his thighs. 

Giles sighed softly, and sat beside him, suddenly recognizing the muted strains of Brahms German Requiem. “Blessed are those they that mourn, for they shall be comforted,” he translated softly, and Wesley closed his eyes. Giles reached over and placed his hand over Wesley’s fluttering fingers, stilling them abruptly. “Oh, Wes. I’m sorry.”

Wesley opened his eyes again, and blushed brightly. “It’s ridiculous, I know. I hadn’t seen him in over eight years.”

“Wesley, your father was buried today. I rather think an emotional reaction is permitted.” He nodded decisively, and was pleased to see some semblance of a smile on the younger man’s face. 

“Yes, Mr Giles.” There was a hint of gentle mocking under the submissive tone.

Well, that at least was an improvement. Giles traced his fingers over the back of Wesley’s hand. “I spoke to your mum at the funeral.” He felt the hand tremble lightly, and rubbed his thumb over Wesley’s palm.

“Is she… how was she... coping?” His voice was almost broken again.

“She was coping admirably. She’s a redoubtable woman, your mum.” 

Wesley nodded, and this time the smile was broader. “Sturdy, my father used to say. I always thought steadfast.” 

Giles decided he liked Wesley’s description better. “She sent some things for you.” He gestured to the box at his feet. The smile was gone quickly, and the fingers beneath his own twitched reflexively. Giles gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, then Wesley lifted the box and set it beside him on the couch. 

He lifted the lid and then stopped. “This is…” He stared at the delicately patterned tea set that nestled in layers of tissue paper. “From L.A.?” 

Giles nodded. “Your mum got a package a few months after. I believe Fred sent it. She thought your mother would want your things.”

Wesley seemed lost in thought. “This was my Great Aunt’s. Rosemary Wesley. She left the set to me when she died.” 

Giles lifted a cup carefully and turned it in his hands. It reminded him of home, of Sunday afternoon tea before returning to prep school. The smell of bergamot forever bound up with the tight claustrophobia of unshed tears and desperate, stomach-churning homesickness. 

“We used to stay at her home in Yorkshire during the school holidays.” Wesley was staring intently at the teapot. “She made these little buns. Butterfly buns, she called them. With butter icing and she let you eat as many as you wanted.” The corners of his mouth quirked in a tiny smile. “I’m afraid she spoiled me rotten.” 

There was wistfulness in the smile now. “I was thirteen when she died. The set was left to me in her will, but I was never allowed to touch it.” Wesley traced his fingers absently along the handle of the teapot. “I was far too clumsy a child. My father locked it away in the drawing room cabinet until I could be trusted not to break it.” There was no resentment in his voice, just quiet resignation. Giles set the cup down on the coffee table. 

“My mother gave it to me after I was assigned active Watcher status. So I could make myself proper tea while I was in that ‘Godforsaken country’, as my father so aptly put it.”

Giles remained silent, but he placed his hand on Wesley’s back as he leaned forward to inspect the contents of the box. Giles felt the hitch in Wesley’s breathing as it jolted his spine. 

“No,” he breathed softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “This can’t be right.” He reached into the box and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich Vintage Reserve. He set it down on the table beside the tea set, then stood abruptly, crossing the room to the desk.

“She shouldn’t have. It wasn’t meant for me.” Wesley leaned clenched fists on the desk and closed his eyes tightly, anger and anguish threatening to break his voice. Giles could not stand it. He moved behind Wesley, settling his palm on his back again. Wesley flinched at the gentle contact. 

Giles refused to be pushed away. “It was meant for you. This bottle was laid down for you at your birth. Your father left instructions that it was to be drunk in your memory.” There was a swift silent sob of breath, and Wesley’s shoulders shook once. “He left this for you, Wes.”

There was another shudder of breath, and then Wesley stood straight, hands fisted tight by his sides. 

“Then open the bottle and we’ll send the old bastard off in style.”

*~*~*~*

“They can say what they like about your Dad, Wes, but he had bloody good taste in whiskey.” Giles swirled the single malt around his tongue, tasting the clean finish of peat and oak with a satisfied sigh.

“What do they say?” Wesley balanced his tea cup carefully on his knee, concentrating intently on not spilling the contents over his trousers. 

“Oh, you know… well, of course you know. He was your father.” He patted Wesley’s other knee lightly. “Sorry, I’m not making much sense, I’m afraid.”

Wesley sighed deeply, and took a sip from his tea cup. “I know. I just didn’t know that other people knew.”

“Well, he was very dedicated to the cause. Almost fanatical, one would say.” He saw Wesley nodding in agreement. “He inspired great loyalty in his team members,” he murmured, remembering Maddox’s words at the funeral. “Was willing to sacrifice everything for the greater good.” 

“He never really got over Vienna, you know.” Wesley’s voice was very low, and he was staring into his drink as if the truth about his father lay therein. “Never forgave himself for losing those two men.” 

Wesley looked up, and Giles saw terrible sadness in his eyes. “From what I understand, he went back to save the last member of the team and a child who were still trapped in the orphanage.” 

“And in so doing, he left his colleagues and the other children at the mercy of Drusilla.” 

“Ah.” Giles took a large swallow of the whiskey. “He discussed this with you?” 

Wesley’s eyes dropped again to his lap. “He was very keen that I should learn the lessons of those mistakes.” 

“I met him then, you know.” Wesley raised his head in surprise. “Back before you were born.”

“But you can’t have been more than…” Wesley screwed his face up, clearly trying to calculate Giles’ age.

“Eight. My father had brought me to the old council offices, to try and instil some sense of awe and wonder in me. Impress upon me the importance of my calling, the gravitas of the situation. I remember ducking out of his office while he was working, to play marbles in the cloisters.” He grinned at the memory, and was pleased to see a small smile on Wesley’s face too.

“I was running down the corridor at full tilt when I crashed into your father. Dropped my bag of marbles all over the floor.” He shook his head wistfully. “Never did find my bloodalley taw again.” He realised suddenly that Wesley was holding his breath. “Oh, he gave me such a ticking off. Frogmarched me up to my father’s office.” Giles thought of his own father’s solemn face; the long grave lecture he’d subsequently received on the nature of responsibility and diligence that had made him squirm with shame. Then wondered briefly what might have happened if it had been Wesley in his position. 

Wesley’s mouth twisted down wryly. “Sounds like my father. He was never much for games or hobbies. Much too busy with his dedication to duty.” He reached over and plucked the order of service from the breast pocket of the jacket which now lay discarded over the back of the couch. He opened it rather shakily. “’Great King of Nations’? The old 137th?” Giles nodded. “Might have known.” Wesley scanned the cream vellum quickly. “And 1st Peter chapter 1.” His smile held no warmth. “Well, he’s nothing if not consistent.” And then he stopped suddenly, the breath caught in his chest.

“Wes?” Giles set his drink down and leaned over to look at the paper. “What’s wrong?”

“The recessional.” The order of service trembled in his fingers. “Jesu Joy. He hated that. Called it sentimental rubbish.”

“Yes, I have to admit it wasn’t what I was expecting. I did wonder what made him choose that.”

“It was my favourite.” The order of service slipped from his fingers and drifted to the floor.

Giles moved closer, putting his arm around the rigid shoulders and pulling gently, until Wesley finally yielded. Giles felt him relax against his chest, and then there was no sound at all, just the soft shudder of his shoulders and the jerky hitching of his breathing. He felt an ache in his own chest, and he stroked his hand down Wesley’s back, and pressed a kiss onto the dark head. 

He had missed Wesley so much.

*~*~*~*

He looked out of the window at the rain-washed leaves and grass and smiled to himself. The rainstorm had taken a while to come, but the tense heat of the previous day had finally dissipated. He looked back to the bed, where Wesley was still fast asleep; the sheets rucked around his legs rather artfully. 

Giles lifted Wesley’s dressing gown from the hook on the door and pulled it on over his boxers and the t-shirt he’d left here the last time. Then leaned over and brushed his fingers through Wesley’s hair. Wesley stirred in his sleep and rolled onto his side. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he mumbled drowsily, and Giles knew then he was still half asleep. He patted the bared shoulder gently and Wesley rubbed his eyes, blinking against the dimmed light of morning. 

“Rupert?” He sounded a little dazed.

“It’s okay, Wes. Go back to sleep.” Wesley obeyed, relaxing almost immediately into a light slumber.

Giles crept out of the bedroom and downstairs, collecting the tea cups from the study. They had managed to finish almost half the bottle between them, but he felt surprisingly sprightly this morning. Positively bouncing with energy, in fact. He knew he was grinning like a fool, but it felt good to be here. Felt like home.

He carried the cups into the kitchen and set them down beside the sink. The little cream Rayburn stove had switched on automatically and the room was already pleasantly warm. Giles filled the kettle and set it on the hot plate to boil, then opened the cupboard over the counter. He reached behind the Winnie the Pooh and Spiderman melamine tableware to lift out the mugs. Spooned two full teaspoons of loose Earl Grey into the brown earthenware teapot. The kettle began to whistle, and he turned back to the stove, almost tripping over a Lego tyrannosaurus rex on the tiled floor.

“Uncle Rupert! You’re here!” The sheer unrestrained joy at his presence was tempered quickly. “Don’t stand on my t-rex!”

Giles lifted his foot carefully, and the model was quickly removed from danger. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” This in a stern accusatory tone, accompanied by arms folded across his chest. The child glared at him from under his dark fringe, and Giles resisted the urge to scoop him up and hug him.

“I’m sorry, Connor. It was very late.”

“I stayed up till ten at Hallowe’en, you know. I am almost five.” He held up the correct number of fingers to prove it, and Giles didn’t resist the urge this time. He lifted the little boy up and squeezed him gently.

“You’re so big. What is Uncle Wes feeding you?” 

“Nothing fun. I want Coco Pops for breakfast.” Connor placed his knee on Giles’ shoulder and perched there, leaning forward to open the cupboard. He pushed past the healthier breakfast options to reach the chocolate cereal.

Giles pondered the wisdom of providing opportunities for small children to consume half their body weight in what was essentially pure sugar, as Connor climbed down from the counter and filled his bowl to almost overflowing. He added enough milk to slosh gently over the sides, then settled himself at the table.

“How long are you going to stay?” Connor paddled his spoon in the cereal, looking inordinately pleased with the chocolate milk tidal wave that resulted.

There was a soft creak and Giles looked up to see Wesley in the kitchen doorway, his face echoing Connor’s question.

“I can only stay a little while, Connor.” He was speaking to Wesley as much as to Connor. “I can’t be away from work for long.”

Connor sighed loudly and quite deliberately. “You work far too hard, Uncle Rupert.” And Giles heard Wesley’s voice in the child’s words. “Auntie Willow says so too.”

Giles tried not to smile at the serious look on Connor’s face. He recalled Willow’s trip to the coven a few months ago. “And Auntie Willow is never wrong, I suppose?” 

Connor nodded vigorously. “You should stay and have fun with me and Uncle Wes. We’re going horse-riding tomorrow and everything.” 

“Well, I think I could stay the weekend, then.” 

Connor’s face lit up. “Brilliant.” He looked over to Wesley. “Can he, Uncle Wes?” 

Wesley’s smile was gentle; heartbreaking. “Uncle Rupert can stay as long as he likes.” 

“See?” There was a note of triumph in Connor’s tone. “Everyone thinks you should stay. Can I take my cereal into the living room to watch Dick and Dom?” He addressed this non-sequitur to Wesley, who eyed the bowl in consternation. 

He lifted down a plastic mug and spooned off the excess milk with suspiciously consummate ease. “There.” He handed Connor the bowl, and the child slid off his chair and headed for the door, carrying the cereal in both hands. 

“He’s grown so much.” Giles watched as Connor balanced the bowl all the way down the hall. 

He had a sudden flash of memory then; of a tiny baby, cradled in Wesley’s trembling arms. Of the quiet desperation in Wesley’s voice as he spoke of the prophecy and his fears for Connor’s safety. 

The accident had been surprisingly easy to contrive, and thanks to the coven’s illusory spells, no one had questioned the identity of the adult male and infant who had been burned beyond recognition in the SUV crash. Holtz was already dead when he had been placed behind the wheel, just after they had strapped the realistic infant doll into the car seat. 

Wesley busied himself with the teapot. “It’s been almost a year since you were last here.” His voice held no accusation; he was simply stating a fact.

“Wes…” Giles put his hand on Wesley’s shoulder. 

“I know. I know…” He shook his head. “I’m being selfish.” Wesley paused, and looked up almost diffidently. “How are… things?”

And there was so much bound up in that single question. “In L.A.?” 

Wesley nodded shyly. “He’s still… with Wolfram & Hart, then?” 

“I’m afraid so.” Giles flexed his fingers almost unconsciously. 

“That doesn’t mean he’s… evil, though?” Wesley was almost begging. 

Giles reached down and took Wesley’s hands in his own. “Not as such.” Wesley was staring down at their joined hands, and Giles felt that odd arthritic twinge in his knuckles that reminded him of his age and the weather, but mostly of the hours he’d spent at Angelus’ pleasure. He sighed softly.

“I know what he’s capable of, Wesley. I have to go back. Willow will cover for my absence for a while, but it won’t be long before Wolfram & Hart start asking questions. And I can’t risk leading him to you.” He laid his palm against Wesley’s cheek. “Not to you.”

“Uncle Wes! Uncle Rupert! They’re playing bogies!” There was mischievous glee in the four year old’s voice.

“Connor misses you.” Wesley’s voice was faint, underscored by the hiss of the kettle on the stove. “I miss you.”

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Wesley.

“Wish I could stay,” he whispered softly, knowing he never could.


End file.
